armer dead;
And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head.
Then spoke the French Lieutenant, ''Twas fire that won, not we.
You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to England free.'

'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine,
A year when nations ventured against us to combine,
_Quebec_ was burnt and Farmer slain, by us remembered not;
But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.

Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind
Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest,
And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.

_Cory._

CXII

THE HEAD OF BRAN

When the head of Bran
Was firm on British shoulders,
God made a man!
Cried all beholders.

Steel could not resist
The weight his arm would rattle;
He with naked fist
Has brained a knight in battle.

He marched on the foe,
And never counted numbers;
Foreign widows know
The hosts he sent to slumbers.

As a street you scan
That's towered by the steeple,
So the head of Bran
Rose o'er his people.

'Death's my neighbour,'
Quoth Bran the blest;
'Christian labour
Brings Christian rest.
From the trunk sever
The head of Bran,
That which never
Has bent to man!

That which never
To men has bowed
Shall live ever
To shame the shroud:
Shall live ever
To face the foe;
Sever it, sever,
And with one blow.

Be it written,
That all I wrought
Was for Britain,
In deed and thought:
Be it written,
That, while I die,
"Glory to Britain!"
Is my last cry.

"Glory to Britain!"
Death echoes me round.
Glory to Britain!
The world shall resound.
Glory to Britain!
In ruin and fall,
Glory to Britain!
Is heard over all.'

Burn, Sun, down the sea!
Bran lies low with thee.

Burst, Morn, from the main!
Bran so shall rise again.

Blow, Wind, from the field!
Bran's Head is the Briton's shield.

Beam, Star, in the west!
Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.

Crimson-footed like the stork,
From great ruts of slaughter,
Warriors of the Golden Torque
Cr